The DCP Series: It's time.

So, the whole "I'll keep up with my blog and talk about the Disney College Program" spiel was a lie. Well, not really a lie so much as a very, cavernously hollow suggestion. But, to make up for it, I'm going to whip up a quick pre-trip synopsis of what I know, what I've heard, and maybe throw in a couple speculative jabs.

Leggo.

Firstly, the dashboard is your friend. It knows everything that you need to know and more. Also, it keeps track of emails sent to you regarding the internship. So, if you're like me and you compulsively delete "read" items in your inbox, the dashboard has your back. 

The dashboard also serves as a big conglomeration of links and URLs readily available for your viewing pleasure. There are numerous videos, packing tips, blurbs about different roles and procedures, lots of good stuff. It's OCDDCP heaven.

Second, try to very actively respond to any and all information/instructions you receive, ESPECIALLY your interviews. When I first began to contemplate the DCP, I was obviously nervous, but I was also horrendously indecisive. This resulted in my first application winding up in a sealed Hefty bag on the curb. Make sure that this is something you want to do. Consider school, work, and anything back home that you can't live 4 to 8 months without. Because once you decide, you need to be 100% sure, fill that bad boy out, and submit him ASAP. This, in my experience, eliminated much of the "waiting game" you commonly hear about from ex-CPs.

Disney doesn't mess around. They're going to interview you three times AND send you an onslaught of mail. When they contact you, always treat it like it's important, even if you have your doubts. The alternative (something similar to what I did) is to procrastinate and ignore them until, roughly a month from your check-in date, you are plunged into a state of panic. Don't be plunged into a state of panic.

And finally, the Disney College Program from what I've heard from several former and current CPs is not for the faint of heart. You're going to work way more than you'd ever care to at odd hours that you'd rather not be conscious with disregard to your sleeping and/or eating schedule, so don't think (as I foolishly thought) that there will be an even split between classes and work and free-time.

Because if the program were a pie, the classes and free-time would be the piece that your cousin's girlfriend eats because she's "watching" and the work portion would be the piece eaten by your redneck uncle who wears the same white cut-off every Christmas and owns more rebel flags than he has teeth.

At least, that's how I've come to understand it.

Anyway, I'm going through quite a bit of stress as my check-in date draws nearer, but it's offset by that childlike excitement that always takes over when I think of working for the Mouse. I'll miss my family and friends and my sweet Molly more dearly than I'd care to confess, but it's four months of my life that, I'm assured, will be well-spent. I've come to terms with leaving these past few weeks; you might even say I'm experiencing "a disquieting metamorphosis" as I mentally prepare for the journey ahead.

8 days and counting. Here we go.
            

Stormocalypse.

I spent the past week at my grandparents' house in North Carolina. As usual, the time with my family was generally pleasant, and all was well. The only real downside was the sun's searing beams of death scorching the earth the entire time we were there.

There was plenty of sweet-tea drinking and TV-watching going on, but we were determined to spend at least some of our time outside. The initial thought was to seek refuge in the pool where SURELY the heat could not penetrate. But alas, we were very wrong, and the water was roughly the temperature of freshly-spewed lava. So, with the pool plan thwarted and the steady barrage of fire and brimstone raining from the sky, it appeared that all hopes of an outdoor gathering were lost.

However, the next day's weather was unexpectedly tolerable. Not only did the sun take a chill pill, but the pool water was no longer boiling and swimming no longer felt like you were awkwardly wading through a community bath. This was good news for the abundance of very loud, very stir-crazy children around and even better news for the parents of said very loud, very stir-crazy children. Life was good and my grandparents' home was, once again, restored to a tolerable decibel level.

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. And this day was no different.

Within a matter of seconds, the brilliantly blue sky dotted by the occasional white, puffy cloud was turned into a mass of swirling grey and black masses. The wind picked up and tore rapidly through the pine trees overhead. Several cracks of thunder sounded off closely followed by a series of brilliant flashes of lightning.

Now, as you're reading this, you no doubt understand the gravity of the situation I'm describing. It's dangerous, and everyone needs to get out of the pool and go inside, preferably in a calm and orderly fashion. But the difference between you and a handful of emotionally volatile children is that you understand that the storm at hand is not an evil rage monster with the sole intention to kill you in the most violent way possible.

Unfortunately, conveying that fact in the midst of the previously described situation is about as futile as trying to teach a rock to fly. Before I could even make my way to the edge of the pool, I was literally trampled by two of my cousins who are both less than half my age, height, and weight. There were kids sprinting in almost every direction possible, little blurs of color careening through the yard towards the house. My youngest brother, who is deathly terrified of storms, reached the door first by means of either a teleporter or possibly some manner of time travel. I believe he may actually possess the same storm-sensing abilities that animals have, something that allows him to reach safety by any means necessary before the first sign of bad weather is even evident.

Two of my youngest cousins, ages three and five, tied for second place into the house, completely unaware of the fact that they were still soaked from head to toe and trudging water through the living room. They then began exhibiting behaviors that I would not have otherwise expected from girls their age...

The older of the two, Annie, threw herself against the glass backdoor where she began screaming, "MOM! MOM! MOMMY! MOMMY!" for a solid two minutes. Her mom, who was still in the yard tying things down and collecting anything that might blow away, answered coolly, "I'm fine. I'll be right there. It's okay. Calm down. It's alright." Despite several reassuring replies, Annie continued yelling through the glass, clearly distraught that the enormous rage monster in the sky was closing in on her mother.

On the other end of the emotional spectrum, Annie's younger sister, Dacie, was absolutely furious with the rage monster's presence: "STOOPIT STOHHM! It wained on my baybing soup!" We all found this hilarious, much to Dacie's dismay. We simply did not comprehend the atrocity that is the storm and how big of a jerk it was.

The older cousins in the group, ages 9 to 14, were in panic mode just like their younger counterparts. However, after their initial burst towards the house, they all simultaneously recognized the opportunity to appear manly and/or heroic by being one of the last ones in the house, the one who stayed and helped the ADULTS. The closer they came to the house, the more they congregated in a traffic-jam-esque group right in front of the door. For the first time in their lives, the last one in was NOT the rotten egg; he or she would be the egg of courage and power and awesomeness who could look stormy rage monsters in the face and say, "Haha! I stalled a full forty-six seconds before fleeing your wrath like a elementary-aged schoolgirl!" Unfortunately, their spontaneous rite of passage ceremony came to an abrupt close as a notably loud crack of thunder sent them flailing inside. Maybe next year, guys.

In the end, all children, pets, and adults were accounted for. No one was seriously injured in the zombie-apocalypse-style scene that occurred in my grandparents' backyard that day, and we all had ice cream afterwards. All was and is still well.

However, I'm fairly certain that a crippling fear of storms will forever haunt my family's gene pool. Stoopit stohhm.
     

Whirlybird.

My great-grandfather, Joe Bentley, is probably one of the most lovable people I will ever meet in my lifetime. Despite the wild, sometimes sobering stories he tells on himself, it's honestly hard to picture him ever being anything but the kindhearted man I've grown to love and respect.

It's equally hard not to drift when I'm listening to him talk, mentally visualizing the beauties and atrocities those deep blue eyes have seen, the precious knowledge stored in now fading memories. Although the majority of his tales take place many years ago, even now in his old age, traces of Popaw Bentley's youth still occasionally surface.

He's been living with my grandparents for quite some time now, and as a result, they too have plenty of new stories to tell. One in particular I heard yesterday...

My grandfather, Kenis, makes what he calls "whirlybirds" which are basically a cross between a weathervane rooster and a pinwheel. Each one is made of wood and crafted to look like various birds, mostly ducks, and they usually end up in my grandparents' backyard.

Popaw Bentley likes to shadow my grandpa while he works in the shop, and last week was no different. After carrying on in various small talk and a few questions about the whirlybird he was painting at the time, Popaw Bentley returned to the living room to lie down. Shortly after he was settled, my grandmother came in from the kitchen and asked him, "Daddy, where's Ken at?" 

My great-grandfather paused, and then replied to her in between giggles, much to my grandma's shock, "Oh, he's out in the garage playin' with his bird." Telling it now, she can't help but laugh, and neither can I. 

92 years old, and Popaw Bentley has a better sense of humor than most people half his age.